


The Game

by Blue_Pandas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Captivity, Dehumanization, Gen, Impact Play, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, discussions of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Pandas/pseuds/Blue_Pandas
Summary: Harry is a spy. Or maybe he should say hewasa spy. Three months of captivity has forced him to give up his pride and crushed his hopes of freedom. Now, all he wants is to avoid attention.  However, the appearance of a new owner threatens to pull him out of the dark and into the limelight, the worst place for a spy or a slave. Whoever this arsehole is, Harry hates him.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I don't even know what this is, but it's definitely not a holiday story.

His knees hurt, but Harry knows better than to complain. His back is resting comfortably against a pair of legs, his wrists aren’t bound, and he’s not gagged or restrained. If they decide he’s not good, he goes to the trunk, and it’s dark and painful and cold there. He’s learned his lesson after the first few times. 

A hand rests on his head absently. Harry doubts the owner even knows what he’s doing. They treat him more like a piece of furniture than even a pet. Then again, though, he could be wrong. He’s studied psychology, knows about conditioning and Stockholm syndrome. Get him to associate being good with comfort. Get him to rely on his captor and empathise with them. 

Everyone breaks eventually. Harry tries to keep that in mind, to not feel guilty about no longer attempting to escape. He still sees possible escape routes, catalogs how fast he has to run, how high he has to jump, what guards he has to avoid. But he remembers the past punishments from when he tried and failed, and he’s not sure the risk is worth it. Harry likes being warm and having food in his belly. Shamefully, he even likes it when they pet him and tell him he’s being good.

He wiggles his toes to keep the blood circulating and shifts his weight to give his legs a break. Sitting this close, Harry is wary of doing any big movements that will attract attention. People like him—slaves—are supposed to blend into their surroundings. They’re ornaments and wallpaper and furniture, not even people at all.

The hand on his head moves down to his neck. Harry can’t help himself. He stiffens under the touch and tries to straighten, improve his posture for a slave check. He is trapped by legs and there is nowhere for him to go. 

“Where is his collar?” the man says. His thumb caresses the skin, a soft threat. This isn’t someone Harry is familiar with. He’s gotten very good at identifying voices these days.

“He panics when he falls asleep wearing one, so we keep it on his wrist,” another answers him. This is one of the nicer ones—nicer in the sense that he’s more interested in ignoring Harry than punishing him for any perceived infraction. 

“Really? You think a slave deserves concessions?” 

“I think my ears deserve concessions,” the nice one responds dryly. “Incessant screaming gets dull after a while, especially when you’re not caning them or doing anything to elicit the screams. This one is usually good about staying silent too.” 

“The screams then…”

“When he falls asleep.” 

The stranger lets out a considering hum. “Slave, why do you scream?” 

Harry is so shocked that someone is addressing him directly that he does not answer. The hand tightens in threat, and he stammers out, “I dream of being choked, sir.” 

“Have you been choked that often?” 

“A few times, sir,” he says. Not from this, but from other incidents, interrogators who didn’t care if he lived or died as long as he told them what they wanted to know. Really, if Harry wants to rank all the times he has been captured and tortured, this would fall pretty low the list. The training was brutal, but now that they have deemed him appropriately broken in, he has been living mostly pain-free. The occasional spanking doesn’t even bother him. 

He’s not being objective, but he can’t help it. Harry understands what’s happening to him, but how does he fight against this conditioning? Should he even fight back? It’s easier to be passive and pliant, and he no longer even tries to fool himself into thinking that he’s waiting for a more opportune moment to jump for freedom. 

“Has he begun working yet?” 

“Some minor stuff. He’s still relatively new, and we’re keeping him close by.” 

The work Whisperwind does, the work Harry was sent here to investigate, is espionage. They send their slaves to gather information on powerful people and blackmail them for power and wealth. Their reach is worldwide, and their slaves are loyal. Harry has seen them beg to be returned to the organisation, and it had sickened him then.

The idea that he might do the same sickens him now, but part of him can understand why they would not want freedom. How does someone with their free will shattered learn to be free again? Throw them into chaos after all they’ve known is structure, and they eventually break. Harry understands that now, understands why that other man he had seen came back even after the agency set up him with a flat and a job. 

He doesn’t forgive the man for selling him out, but he understands.

* * *

They arrive back at the enormous property that is Whisperwind’s secret headquarters. The agency would salivate at all the information Harry could provide if he even got out of here. 

A slave greets them at the door and disappears with the bags. There are usually only ten or so slaves actually at headquarters. The rest are out on jobs to seduce, spy, and secure the organisation’s priorities. Harry is the only new slave, and the others keep their distance to avoid the inevitable downfall when a sign of an unbroken personality appears. Those instances have been decreasing in frequency. 

Still, they keep him close by. There is almost always one of the owners with him to ensure he’s behaving properly and to punish him when he is not. 

It’s been a long drive, and they go to the dining hall. Of course, there is already food and plates set up for the owners. The slaves tread a fine line between anticipating reactions and managing the owners. One gets them no reaction, which is always the best response. The other gets a punishment. 

Harry takes his normal position by the wall, invisible until he is needed. However, soon enough, one of the owners waves him over. He thinks it’s the new one, the one in the car asking questions, because the face is unfamiliar. He’s handsome, the kind of face someone would crane their head back for a second look. 

The best monsters are always pretty. 

“Are you hungry?” the man asks. 

“Yes, sir.” He’s been taught that Whisperwind wants honesty. Not the kind of honesty Harry had expected, where they say they want the truth but get mad when the answer is not what they want to hear. They can be disappointed in what he says, but he’s obeying an order, which keeps him safe. Lies, even white lies, earn the punishments.

“Come here, then.” 

Harry is wary, but he tries to not let that show on his face. It’s already instinct to obey before thinking about the implications, and he does not have much time to wonder what the man is planning before he is there. 

“Who else is coming for dinner?” he asks the other three in the room.

“No one else.” 

The stranger waves carelessly at the chair next to him. “Sit.”

Harry obeys, moving stiffly. He has _never_ eaten at a table while owners are present since he was captured. Is this a test? What is he planning?

The cushion on the chair is soft, but Harry cannot relax. The owners ignore him and treat this like an everyday occurrence. He tentatively reaches out for some food from the dish closest to him, duck in a sweet and spicy sauce. No one stops him. 

The food is good, like always, but the set up makes Harry feel extremely uncomfortable. At least this isn’t a new reaction Whisperwind trained into him. Harry has never liked eating around other people, a problem that probably stems from his childhood. A memory of a woman yelling at him for being lazy and stealing food echoes in his head, and Harry squashes it firmly.

It helps that the dishes move around constantly, and at one point, the new one deposits some potatoes and peas onto his plate. He holds onto the signs that they want him to eat, that this is not a trick, and most of all, that the food is not poisoned, and settles. 

They talk about jobs currently being run out of Whisperwind, and Harry listens but does not participate. Eventually, the conversation shifts to discussions of training. 

“We don’t rape them,” the nice one says. “Any kind of intercourse is rape with them, and it may shatter the trust beyond repair. The goal is to reshape them, not break them.”

Harry bites back a snort but can’t help an eye-roll. They think so highly of themselves and their treatment of their slaves, forgetting about the part where it’s _slavery_. Consent matters in all situations, not just during sex.

“Did you have something to say, Harry?” 

Oh fuck. There are different levels of danger in Whisperwind for a slave. The best-case scenario is to be invisible, and Harry is very good at that. Then, if they are to be addressed, the impersonal “slave,” while degrading, means he is still part of the crowd, and there is safety in numbers. The worse cases are when they use his name.

He lifts his head because he’s being addressed directly, and says quietly, “No, sir.”

“That’s one. Want to try again?” 

Fuck. He is so not interested in getting caned. That’s always the first punishment, ten strikes with the cane. Then, they get creative. 

There is an implied order in the question, a demand for him to speak his thoughts, but Harry chooses to interpret it differently and goes with honesty. “Not really, sir.”

A warm laugh. At least he amuses them. “Then, let’s make it an order. Tell me what you were thinking just now. And if you prevaricate again, that’ll make it three.”

Harry holds back a sigh. He’s already going to get punished, might as well just go all out and make things worse for himself. “I was thinking that it’s odd you deign rape off-limits, when you violate us in so many other ways. Sir.” He drops his head again.

The owners laugh. Gods, why is he still sitting here? “Eyes up,” the same owner orders. “So is this your way of telling us you want to be raped?” 

Yeah, this would be a fine time to duck under the table and out of this conversation. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been dismissed yet. “No, sir, just that I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had been.”

“Do you think your behaviour here might have changed if you had been? Would you have fought back more? Less?” 

“I think that, in my case because I cannot speak for another, things would be the same. It wouldn’t be my first time being taken against my will.” That had been why, at first, Harry had thought he could last long enough to escape or be rescued. He had already recovered from it once, knew it wouldn’t break him. He just hadn’t counted on everything else they did in training.

There are winces around the table. They look surprised to hear that. “Was there lasting damage?” the nice one asks. “Physical or psychological?” 

“No, sir.” If he had told them yes, they would have gotten him professional treatment. It was for purely selfish reasons, so they wouldn’t lose a valuable asset, but they cared for the health of all their slaves. Except for, well, the slavery part. He resists another eye roll.

“Maybe we should give him a break,” the first says with a laugh. “Go get the cane, pet.”

Harry goes. He picks a solid, flexible one that hurts but won’t draw blood. The owner canes him, ten perfect strikes, then pushes him so he’s sitting on the ground with his aching arse. But finally, he’s out of the limelight, and he shifts until he’s leaning against the owner’s leg, using it as a pillow. 

He naps to the sound of light conversation over his head, a hand on his head, and a cuff on his wrist that marks him as theirs.

* * *

Harry does not know if he can be alone anymore. It’s a startling thought, one that hits him as he drowsily wakes up in the middle of the night. There is an owner next to him, and he snores in sleep. Harry is surrounded by the warmth of a soft duvet and strong arms that hold him. He does not shift or turn, to avoid waking the owner, but he is no longer asleep.

He grew up in a cupboard, where the spiders were silent and the loneliness was luxuriant. He had craved the end of the day, when he could retreat into the tiny space, and be _safe_ when safety was just a six-letter word he learnt for a spelling test.

He does not think he has ever known what safety is.

On his less charitable days, he thinks the agency is not much different from Whisperwind. That too, is not a new idea, though, in the past, he compared it to the other enemy groups he was fighting against. The agency targets vulnerable people and bribes them with the idea that this is a group that cares about them, that is invested in their safety, and all they ask for in response is their service and aid in saving the world.

If they cared about their agents as anything more than warm bodies, he wouldn’t be here right now. Is anyone looking for him? It’s been three months. Have they declared him dead and wiped their hands clean of him?

Harry does not hope for an exfil team to extract him. He was captured by Whisperwind during an opportune moment when he was heading home. Perhaps the agency thinks his disappearance is his resignation letter. Agents come and go, after all.

He pinches himself, a sharp burst of pain that gives him something to concentrate on beyond his melancholy. Harry has never done well with introspection. He wiggles to turn on his side and kick a leg out of the duvet. The cold bites against his leg, and he shivers.

“Awake?” the owner asks him, voice heavy with sleep. He’s the new one, and Harry is still not sure if he is one to be wary of. 

Harry groans internally. “Yes, sir. Sorry for waking you.” 

The owner sits up, the duvet sliding to his hips. He leans over to grab a jumper from the dresser and hands it to Harry. It’s too big for him, and he has to fold the sleeves up. The owner dresses silently. They walk out of the room and down the stairs. He hands Harry a pair of boots that fit perfectly and helps him lace them up. 

They walk out the door into the chilly night. The stars are bright over his head, the property far away enough to be little affected by light pollution. They walk in silence. Dead leaves and broken branches crack under their steps. Their breaths come out in little visible puffs. 

It’s not a long hike, but by the time they reach the owner’s destination, Harry’s breath is coming fast. He’s fallen out of shape here. He refuses to complain, draw attention to himself, and his focus narrows to the next step. 

The owner stops. They’re standing at the top of the hill. On one side is the mansion. On the other is the rest of the world. 

“My name is Tom,” the man says, “and I’m going to get you out of here.”

* * *

Harry is overflowing with questions, but Tom does not give him time to ask. He gives Harry time to take five deep breaths and urges him back the direction they came. By the time they’re back at the mansion, Harry is sweating despite the cold night, and Tom runs a hot shower for the two of them. He gives Harry the first shower, and he scrubs quickly, all the while confused and scared. 

Is this a test? If it is, the obvious solution is to tell someone that Tom is a spy. However, if it isn’t, doing so will likely get Tom killed. Whisperwind does not tolerate insubordination, especially from an owner. 

Harry wonders if this the same decision the slave who sold him out struggled with, if it was even a struggle for him at all. Harry understands why he made the decision he did. However, it’s not in his nature to do the same.

He stays silent and exits the shower to get dressed. Tom ignores him and steps inside. Harry is a spy, a damn good one. He may bend but he will not break. He has questions but he will not be hasty. Patience is a spy’s game, he’s not quite broken after all, and he will play it to the end.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a WIP since March, first when I wrote this, then when I wrote what came after (which I never finished because finishing is hard), then when I was like _but what if I combined them_. I decided to post this first version, which I had written with the intention of making a standalone, but if you're interested in what came after Harry escaped, check out [this link to a google doc](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1e2wlk9b4sihCXhXIF9nuEU7Rb1d26YDZDnTEZce4FfA/edit?usp=sharing), featuring 22k of HTML formatting, continuity errors, discussions of BDSM and Tom's Not BDSM relationship preferences, Tom/Harry/Cedric, no smut, no content warnings provided (please be a careful reader!), and an abrupt ending that's really no ending at all because finishing is hard. 
> 
> Thank you for reading (this or that gdoc)! I hope you're all staying healthy and safe in these times.


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